Ligatures in War
by Miss Mungoe
Summary: Their countries at war, they are enemies by default, but there is nothing hateful in her touch; her calloused hands wrapped so gently around the roots of his tired heart – Laxana, World War II AU.


AN: All the love in the world to **lilithkiss** for her insane talent. This is a little thing I asked if I could do for her; it's inspired by her lovely Laxus/Cana historical AU artwork titled "The Russian Soldier and the Italian Country-girl". She's kindly given me permission to use her headcanon for my own silly purposes, hurr.

And a huge thank-you to **le-spoopy-bloge **and **elinkamag** for Russian linguistic assistance, and to **celestialonlooker **for help with the Italian! As a language nerd, I'd rather not step on any toes by accidentially butchering someone's mother tongue. However, if there are any mistakes, please do let me know and I'll fix them.

**Warning:** rated 'M' for multilingual swearing and fisticuffs.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fairy Tail or its characters. The idea behind this, as well as the artwork that inspired it, belongs to lilithkiss.

* * *

**Ligatures in War**

**by Miss Mungoe**

**part I. **

In that book which is my memory, **  
**On the first page that is the chapter when I first met you,**  
**Appear the words 'Here begins a new life'

- Dante Alighieri, _La Vita Nuova_

* * *

_Italy, 1942_

He was tired of war.

Running a hand over his face, Laxus settled back into his seat, sparing a glance at the scenery passing by outside the train window. His joints ached, and the seat was uncomfortable. He'd travelled in worse conditions before, of course, but that didn't make his current predicament much better. But to blend in, he couldn't very well board first class with a smile and a wave.

Nudging his hat into place so it didn't dig into his ears quite so much, he checked his credentials again, before tucking them back into the pocket of his trousers. Fake credentials to go with his fake German passport, the nice, fake German name and hopefully, the German accent good enough to fool the people he was travelling to meet.

Drawing a breath, he exhaled it in a great gust of air, and leaned his head back against the seat, wondering what the odds were that he could talk his old man into letting him take some time off once the mission was over and done with. A sneer curled his lip at the thought. Not likely, if he knew his old man. Ivan was notoriously untrustworthy, and only sent his best men on missions like these. Men like Laxus. Often only Laxus would do, disregarding the fact that he was still recovering from his last near-suicide run in Berlin.

Which was why a scant two weeks later, he was on his way through the Italian countryside, charging head-first into enemy territory with nothing but his wits, a gun and what he hoped were some damn good credentials. He couldn't risk messing up again – he doubted he'd get out of it alive, this time. He was lucky the Germans had bought his ruse as long as they had, but something crawling along the pit of his stomach told him this was a far bigger risk. He _knew_ Berlin. Knew the streets and the landmarks and the alleyways to escape through. Rome he only knew from maps, and though his memory was sharp, he knew for a fact that that knowledge would only help so much. Nothing beat experience of living somewhere, of spending every day scouting out the area, of getting to know the nooks and crannies of a city – not just the general layout.

And he didn't have time for that in Rome. Not to mention the fact that while he'd been able to blend in quite well in Berlin, he was far more noticeable where he was going now. And even if he could convince them he was German...the whole mission smacked of danger, and for once he found he'd rather be without it.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the rattling hum of the train. The other occupants of his carriage seemed to be mostly asleep, but his instincts were too on edge for him to get any real rest, so he settled for simply resting his eyes.

Despite his aversions, though, he found himself jolting awake some time later, and his heart seized in his chest as his eyes sprang open only to see the other occupants remove their luggage from the overhead compartments. He blinked again, and tried to settle his raging heart, rubbing a hand over his eyes and mentally berated himself for just falling asleep like a rookie. He shook his head – he must have been more tired than he'd thought.

He waited until the people had moved out of the train, then followed, his own bag slung casually over his shoulder. He always travelled light, and kept his necessities on his person. The bag he could leave, if needed be. But as he stepped off the train and into the bustling station, Laxus hoped that for once, things would actually go according to plan.

_Stazione Termini _was milling with people, and he gingerly pushed his way through the crowd, eyes flickering across the heads of the people making their way in and out of the great station. A din of mingled dialects of Italian washed over him, and he entertained himself with trying to pick out words from the cacophony. His own Italian was basic at the very best, but he knew enough to get around. Still, he wished he'd had more time to study the language before his father had sent him off.

But then the war couldn't exactly wait for him to get his grammar straight, now could it?

Swiftly bypassing a small family rushing towards the platform he'd just left, Laxus walked briskly towards the exit. The temperature was stifling, and the collar of his shirt was uncomfortably tight around his neck. Having grown up with Russian winters was one thing, but this...this was just too much.

Stepping outside, he shielded his eyes from the sun as he made his way forward, pulling up street names from his memory as he tried to make out where he was going. Stopping by a signpost, he cast a glance around him and the members in impeccable military uniforms patrolling the area. He'd been told to meet someone, but had not been given a name.

"Signor Roth?"

The voice pulled him from his musings, and he turned around to regard the grizzled official regarding him from beneath a set of dark, bushy eyebrows. His uniform was impeccably pressed, and though he stood a good head below Laxus, his countenance suggested otherwise.

Laxus nodded. "Sí."

The man returned the nod, the movement sharp and decisive. His eyes flickered over Laxus' hair, then his face, before finally meeting his gaze. "I am _capitano _Bruno, of the _Carabinieri._ I will escort you to the agreed location." His narrowed, hawk-like eyes spoke of distrust, but there was nothing hostile about the man. Precautions, though, Laxus could understand. He hadn't harboured any hopes that they would welcome him with open arms.

He nodded again, and without another word, the Captain turned sharply on his heel, raising his hand. A moment later, a car rolled up to the curb. Laxus said nothing as he opened the door to get in the back, while Bruno got into the front. A sharp order in Italian, and the driver nodded his head, before pulling back onto the main street.

Laxus spared a glance outside as they drove through the city, but made no attempt to speak. A glance at the rear-view mirror confirmed his suspicions that Bruno was watching, but he made no move to look away, only raised a brow in question.

"Your first time in Rome, Signor Roth?" he asked in broken German, laced with a heavy Italian accent.

Laxus nodded, accepting the provided courtesy of being able to speak in his fake mother tongue. "Yes, but I've long wished to visit."

Bruno merely nodded, and they lapsed back into silence. His credentials had not been checked, but it was all par the course. They would check him before the meeting, he knew. That way, if he turned out to be a spy, they could dispose of him out of sight of the public eye. The upkeep of a fascist regime relied heavily of keeping the dirt hidden firmly under the carpet, after all. If Bruno had his suspicions about his identity, he would not act on them until they had arrived at their intended destination. It was just as crucial that Laxus was not alerted to any misgivings, so as to stop him from trying to escape too soon.

Even so, he didn't feel nervous, as he perhaps should. He'd been on too many missions of this sort to still feel the familiar tingle of fear in the pit of his stomach. Instead, Laxus felt fatigue weigh down on his shoulders, and coupled with the heat, he didn't think he could have felt nervous if he'd tried.

He could almost hear his father's reprimand in his ears, scolding him for not taking the mission seriously. It had been a lucky break – the kind that only came around _once_, and he'd been chosen for a reason.

They'd caught a German spy in Moscow a little over a month back. One Ludwig Roth, who'd been unfortunate enough to land into Ivan's custody. From the interrogations they'd discovered he'd been scheduled to be in Rome at the end of the month, to disclose what he had learned from his time in Moscow. He'd been a scant inch shorter than Laxus, with the same build and the same Aryan features the Germans favoured so much. It had been perfect, and Ivan had been in a good mood for a solid week afterwards.

Three weeks later, and Ludwig Roth was en route to Italy, the Germans none-the-wiser and so, Laxus hoped, the Italians as well. He only needed to play his part. Disclose the information his father had given him – enough to avoid suspicion, but nothing of any real importance – and hopefully learn something useful in the process. If all went well, he'd be on his way back to Moscow in a few weeks.

Bruno barked something at the driver, pulling Laxus out of his thoughts, and he looked up as the car pulled into a side-street. They were heading out of the city, he noted, as the buildings became sparser around them. He could see trees and fields in the distance, and the red-tiled roofs of small farm-houses dotting the countryside. They'd been driving longer than he'd thought.

An hour passed without much word from either the driver or Bruno, when the car finally pulled into the driveway of a scenic country house. It had been getting darker for some time, but nowhere near as dark as Moscow would be at this time of night. Cicadas chirped from the bushes, and with the country house windows lit up with lanterns, it painted a disturbingly pretty picture, considering what was waiting inside.

Laxus got out of the car, and gingerly stretched. Hours on a train followed by a long drive in a car had not done any favours to his back, but he ignored the ache as he followed Bruno towards the front door.

The _capitano _strode up to the door, before rapping his knuckles three times against the painted wood. A pause followed, before the door opened, followed by a brisk exchange in Italian, and then Laxus was whisked inside.

The entryway was larger than the exterior of the house suggested, and Laxus looked up at the banner spanning the length of the wall in front of him, proudly displaying the slogan of the fascist party, _"Credere, Obbedire, Combattere" _in intricate gold lettering.

"Signor Roth, this way, _per favore_."

He followed the Captain into the house, mapping out the interior as he went. Where the windows were, and the doors, the staircases. All possible exists, if things went to hell.

They descended a flight of stairs into the basement, and Laxus breathed deeply as the temperature changed significantly. A hum from beside him told him Bruno had noticed, and when he turned to look at the man, there was amusement in his dark eyes.

"You Germans, so..." he seemed to search for the right word, "_tender_ to this heat. Germany is cold, no?"

Laxus tried a smile, and it came easier than expected. "Not very, this time of year. But colder, yes."

The _capitano_ nodded, but said nothing else as he lead Laxus into a room at the end of a dimly lit, stone-walled corridor. "This way."

The door at the end opened up into a cellar room, typically used to store food, Laxus suspected, but that had been converted into what looked to be a debriefing room. A table with maps spread across the top stood in the middle, and several uniform-clad men were stationed around it, speaking in rapid Italian.

They looked up at their entry, and Bruno saluted. Laxus echoed the gesture with the Nazi salute, uttering a sharp _"Heil Hitler"_, before, in his best attempt at Italian, _"Viva Il Duce"._

The men returned the gestures, before turning away from the table. Greetings ensued, where Bruno introduced Laxus to several high ranking officials, one of whom was a stoic, dark haired man he was told was the _generale di corpo d'armata, _the Lieutentant General. The man watched him with unreadable dark eyes, and for the first time since he'd crossed over the border, Laxus felt a shiver of unease travel down his back.

"Signor Roth, as I've been told. You've served the _Führer_ long?"

Laxus straightened his back, feigning pride. "Seven years, Signore."

The man regarded him closely. "You are very...young, to hold such a rank?"

Laxus nodded. "Twenty-six, Signore._"_ That had been another happy coincidence. Ludwig Roth had been very young, indeed, only a year older than Laxus.

The lieutenant general nodded once. "I've read the reports on you. Infiltrator in Moscow since 1941. You've done some impressive work."

Laxus nodded again._ "_Grazie_, _Signore._"_

"And yet..."

Something in Laxus _lurched_ at the words, but he tried not to let it show. One look at the lieutenant general, however, confirmed his fear.

"You look like a very different man than the Ludwig Roth I met with last year." He smiled a stiff smile. "Would you care to explain, or should we draw our own conclusions?"

_Yebat'! _He heard the unmistakable click of guns being drawn, but none were fired, and Laxus was well aware of the reason why. They needed him alive, at least for the moment, until they got what they wanted. The lieutenant general regarded him coolly from across the room, seemingly in no hurry, and Laxus felt sweat break out across his back.

"You are very young indeed to be playing with the big boys, Signor. _But_," he took a step forward calmly. Laxus felt the weight of his gun against his hip, and wondered if he had the time to draw it. In the top-right pocket of his jacket was a cyanide pill – another option, unless they got him first.

The lieutenant general smiled another stiff smile. "Ah, let me guess. The pocket of your trousers? Or the jacket, perhaps? You won't reach it in time, _whelp."_

Laxus made no move to reach for either, but held his ground, weighing his options. Three soldiers to his left, the lieutenant general in front of him, and Bruno at his back. Not a lot of options, but in a windowless cellar, his only way out was the way he had come in.

He saw the lieutenant general open his mouth to say more, and made his move.

Throwing his weight backwards, he rammed into the captain, taking him by surprise and sending them both sprawling back onto the stone floor. With his eyes still on the men in front of him, Laxus rolled out of the way of the bullets that flew freely now, reaching for his own gun in the process. Pain surged through his system from somewhere near his right rib, and he yelled, but pushed down the sensation, focusing instead on the people still aiming for him.

He landed a bullet between Bruno's eyes first, then one of the soldiers, before pushing himself to his feet and charging towards the stairs.

Having heard the gunshots, the driver was on his way down, but Laxus was quicker, gun drawn before he'd rounded the corner, and he ducked out of the way as the driver's limp form tumbled down the stone staircase, only to ram into the two soldiers at his heels. Loud yelling in Italian followed him out of the house, and he nearly tore the door off its hinges as he raced towards the car.

The keys were still in the ignition, and he twisted them as he got into the driver's seat. A second later, a bullet ricocheted off the hood, and Laxus ducked, before pulling his gun and landing another bullet into the soldier who'd shot. His companion followed, but Laxus took him down before he'd has the chance to aim for the wheels.

Then there was a breath of silence, and Laxus rammed his foot down onto the gas, pulling out of the driveway just as he saw the lieutenant general emerge from the house, shouting. Another bullet rammed into the car, but he didn't stop, surging down the gravelled road leading into the countryside. He wasn't taking his chances with the city now.

Lights in his rear-view mirror told him the lieutenant general was in hot pursuit, and Laxus cursed under his breath as he urged the little car to pick up speed. Seeing an opening, he swivelled onto a side-road, and watched as the car behind him followed.

He didn't have many options, he knew that. If he wanted a chance to get away, he had to take care of the lieutenant general first. It took a second to make up his mind, and then he was ramming his foot down onto the breaks, skidding to a halt along the darkened road. Throwing the door open, he threw himself onto the ground, ignoring the pain that surged through him from the wound in his side, gun already in his hand as he rolled behind the cover of the car.

He heard the other vehicle skid to a stop, and then a bullet landed an inch from his face, eliciting another curse. Peeking out over the top, he breathed in. He didn't have many bullets to waste, so he would have only a few attempts to end it. Peeking out from behind his cover, Laxus saw his opponent pull the trigger of his own gun, and before the bullet hit the hood of the car, aimed his own gun and shot.

He heard the pained shout, followed by a colourful string of Italian, and smirked. _Who's a whelp, you stariy kozyol? _

It hadn't been a fatal shot, he knew that, but if it would slow the man down, that could provide the opening he needed. The wound in his side was making its presence known, and sweat had broken out across his brow. A hiss tore from his lips when he pressed a hand against his side, only to come away coated in blood.

He tried to calm his breathing, and centre his focus on the predicament in front of him. The lieutenant general was still crouched behind his own car, and Laxus knew he would have to come out of hiding himself to get a clear shot.

The next moment he was moving again, charging the distance between the two vehicles, and he realized a moment too late the lieutenant general had run out of bullets. He'd just reached the other car when the man surged to his feet, and Laxus' gun was knocked out of his grip, to skid across the gravel. He swore, and barely had time to duck away from the knife aimed for his face, clamping his eyes shut as he threw himself to the side.

White-hot pain cut down from his brow to his cheek, and he yelled out, hand clamping down over his right eye. He dodged the next hit, but his vision was severely hampered. He noticed the man was fighting with his left arm, the erratic movements like those of someone used to fighting with the opposite arm, and he smirked. An advantage, he knew, if he could ignore the wound in his side and the cut over his eye.

Feigning a duck to the side, he threw his weight forward instead, ramming into the man and taking him down with him. Releasing his grip over his eye, Laxus caught the hand with the knife, and tore the weapon from his aggressors' grasp, before turning it over and slitting his throat in one smooth movement. The body beneath him seized before going limp, and the silence that stretched out immediately afterwards was almost painfully loud in his ears. He could hear his own breathing, and tried to ease his raging pulse down to a manageable level.

Rolling off the body, Laxus tore off his jacket, before hacking off a good piece of cloth with the knife, to tie around his midsection. Another piece he held against his brow to staunch the bleeding, and took a moment to lean against the side of the car.

He had to get moving again, in case they'd caught word in the city and sent out reinforcements. With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet, staggering against the vehicle. Opening the door, he stumbled inside, hissing under his breath as he fumbled with the keys, all the while pressing the cloth to his face.

With effort, he managed to start the car, and continued down the road and into the darkened countryside. The sparse trees dotting the side of the road thickened, and it wasn't long before the lights from houses in the distance vanished, leaving him in the middle of nowhere. The car was running low on gas, and he swore, realising he wouldn't get much further by way of vehicle. But he could see the small lights of a village in the distance, and knew he would have to approach on foot to avoid detection.

Stopping the car in the shadows of a row of trees, he staggered outside, dizzy and disoriented. Clamping his teeth down, he moved slowly towards the little village, knowing he'd have to find some form of transportation further into the countryside, or across the border. They'd find out about his escape, no doubt, if they didn't already know. And if they discovered that he'd been shot, they'd track him down in a heartbeat. And in a village as small as the one he was heading towards, there were only so many places to hide for a blonde, clearly foreign man.

He passed through the dark in a haze, the steady, pulsating pain in his side an ever-present companion as he neared the outskirts of the small settlement. Catching sight of a shadowed shape near the side of the road, Laxus angled towards it, finding it to be – as he had hoped – a cart. Casting a glance around him to make sure no one was nearby, he hoisted himself up into the back, and had to bite back a shout as the movement had his entire torso erupting with pain. Collapsing into the back of the cart, he crawled amongst the crates stacked below a dark tarpaulin, hiding himself at the very back to make sure he couldn't be spotted from the outside.

Breathing a heavy sigh, he settled back amongst the cargo...and waited.

There was a knife tucked into his boot if everything went to hell. If he was lucky, the most he would have do deal with would be a handful of farmers. That was if his wounds didn't kill him first, of course. The thought brought with it a surge of pain, and he clenched his eyes shut, forcing himself to keep still.

He didn't know how long he waited, or how many hours passed, tucked away in the back of the cart, but someone did eventually come. He heard the protestations of a mule as it was tied to the cart, and felt the jarring impact as it shook with the movements. He heard a man's voice, soothing and quiet, followed by heavy footsteps over his head, before the bark of an order and the crack of a whip had the cart lurching to life.

He hadn't bothered to check for stowaways, but then, Laxus figured, this far into the countryside people weren't likely to be as suspicious as those he usually surrounded himself with.

The ride was long over uneven patches of road, and in the stifling heat of what had to be the midday sun, the room below the tarpaulin was like a cooker. Wiping his brow, Laxus forced his eyes to remain open, and his senses alert. He would have to get out as soon as the cart stopped. Hopefully, it would be dark again by then, giving him an escape into the cover of night. Or find somewhere to hide until he could recuperate, or at least to remove the bullet still lodged in his midsection and wrap a bandage around his head. He hadn't dared to open his right eye yet, so he had no way of knowing how much damage the knife had done to his vision.

He'd almost drifted off, weak from hunger and the inflamed injury in his side, when the cart finally came to a halt. By the lack of light filtering in through the cracks in the cart, it had to be getting quite late, and Laxus steeled himself for the moment when the cover over his head would come off...

When it didn't, he frowned, and strained his ears, but there were no sounds from the farmer. Deciding to take his chances, and with one hand pressed over the wound, he inched out from his cramped hiding place, breathing a sigh of relief when the cool country air brushed against his face and the throbbing cut. Looking out from below the tarpaulin, he found the cart to be deserted, left beside what appeared to be a stable. The driver was nowhere to be seen, but by the soft sounds of laughter drifting out from somewhere in the village, Laxus figured he'd gone to grab something to drink.

Dropping down from the cart, he staggered, near-blind with pain, away from the stables. Going into the village was out of the question, but he needed somewhere to hide. A glance over the darkened countryside alerted him to the flickering glow from a farm in the distance, and he made his decision. Better to take his chances at a place where he could make a commotion without drawing the attention of the entire village in the process.

The trek was longer than he'd first assumed, and by the time he reached the darkened stable, a few paces away from the actual house, he was swaying on his feet. The door gave in with little resistance, and he collapsed before he was even halfway inside, and had to drag himself along the hay-covered floor. He tried to prop himself up on his elbow, but all the strength seemed to have left him, having finally drained away on his walk across the countryside. His head throbbed unpleasantly, and he knew he shouldn't be falling asleep, but his mind was finally catching up with his body, and he couldn't have remained awake even if he'd tried.

The last thought that drifted to him from the depths of his consciousness was that he was _damn tired of war._

* * *

He was awakened from his slumber by a bucket of ice cold water dumped over his head.

"Oye, soldier boy! No free lodging on this farm, so get your arse in gear!"

The throaty voice barely registered in his ears – Laxus was too busy trying to cough up the water that had forced its way down his throat – spluttering and hacking as he doubled over on his side. The constriction of his chest had the wound flaring up, and he hissed through his teeth as a wave of pain slammed into him with near physical force.

"_Mother of–!"_

His head spun from the pain, and he couldn't see worth jack, but he could feel the sweat that had his soaked shirt sticking to his fever-hot skin, and the coarse hay beneath him didn't feel nearly as comfortable as when he'd collapsed on it the night before. Wiping at his good eye, he blinked it open–

–only to come face-to-face with an ample chest and – when he lifted his gaze – a scowl so fierce it put his old man's to shame.

"_What_ did you just say?"

The voice was the same that had yelled earlier, he realised – low and throaty, but this time there was a dangerous quality to it, and he was only granted a second of confusion before he remembered the curse that had fallen from his lips a moment ago, in his real mother tongue.

_...yebat'. _

And suddenly he was very much aware of where he was, and what he'd been doing, and the inflamed wound in his side suddenly didn't seem quite so serious with the withering look the woman before him was giving him.

"And here I thought you were just a lazy German dissenter," she spoke again, and the next thing he knew she was pointing a pitchfork at him, and the sheer ridiculousness of the whole scene almost had him barking a laugh. _Escape from a German base by the skin of my teeth only to be taken down by a farm-girl with a pitchfork. _His old man wouldn't be able to live with the shame if word got out about it.

Not that Laxus had any plans of giving up quite so easily. "Signora, per favore–"

"Hey!" she proffered the pitchfork again, and he pushed himself back in automatic response, only to have his elbow give out from under him, and the pain that ripped through his midsection as he fell against the hay-covered floor was enough to tear a shout from his lips, and for a split second the wrath of the angry Italian woman vanished from his list of immediate concerns.

His vision swam unpleasantly, and he grappled for something to hold on to, only to suddenly find his hands grasped by a pair of smaller ones. With surprising strength, they pried his arms to the sides, and before he could get his wits about him he was forced onto his back.

He heard her bite off a particularly colourful curse, no doubt at the sight of the blood. He should have been more concerned at being at the complete mercy of a woman who had two seconds ago tried to stab him with a pitchfork, but he was on the point of passing out again, so he couldn't really make himself care all that much. _There are worse ways to go than at the hands of a gorgeous woman_. Even if she was the one who ultimately killed you.

He felt her move away from him, heard the door to the stable swing shut, and wondered if she'd bring back her father to finish him off. It was a strange thought – from what little he'd seen of her, he'd have thought she'd do the job herself.

Then the door was swinging again, and he felt her settle down beside him a moment before her hands found his midsection. The sudden touch made him flinch, and he bit back another curse.

"Lie still," she snapped, the sound of her voice tearing through the haze of pain, and he complied only with a bit of protesting as he felt her fingers tug his blood-soaked shirt out of his pants to look at the wound, uncaring of the way the material was stuck to his skin, and Laxus yelled when she tore it away without apology.

"_Tchort poderi!"_

"Oh, shut up."

He groaned. "There are quicker ways to kill me," he answered in English, as she had been speaking to him. "The pitchfork would be–" he hissed through his teeth, _"–preferable."_

She snorted, and suddenly he felt the pads of her calloused fingers against the skin of his side, cool and controlled. _She's done this before, _the thought leaped out at him.

"And if I was going to kill you, I'd have used it," she said, tone strangely calm. Then she hummed, "I'll need to get the bullet out." He felt her hands at his waist again, before a sudden tug had his belt coming free, but he didn't have time to ask what she was doing before it was suddenly dangling in front of his face. "You might want to bite down, unless you'd like the entire village to hear you screaming like a girl again." Amusement coloured her tone, although it had a distinctly down-to-business quality to it. There was no arguing with an order like that.

Of course, that didn't mean he'd just let her get away with her assumptions.

"I wasn't–_nnng–_" the leather belt was stuffed rather unceremoniously into his mouth, and he didn't have much of a chance to react before he felt something sharp and metallic – and a white-hot pain like _being shot_ _all over again_ – right in the centre of the wound, and he bit down on the belt in automatic response as another shout tore from his throat, followed by a string of muffled expletives cursing every deity he knew of and their respective mothers.

Then the instrument was gone, pulling what he assumed was the bullet from under his skin, and he'd had only a second to sag back against the floorboards in relief when a cool liquid was dumped over the wound and _yebat_ but it _**stung like a motherfu**_**–**

…

…

...

When he opened his eyes again, it was dark and the girl was nowhere to be seen.

He blinked his good eye, and his entire head felt _heavy_ – the kind of heavy that either comes from morphine sleep, or from passing out cold. He groaned as he realised what must have happened, but didn't shift, only raised one of his hands to gently probe the wound in his side. His fingers met with the soft gauze of a bandage, wrapped tightly around his midsection. Then he felt along the cut running down the right side of his face, and found to his surprise neat little stitches dotting the length of the wound. He tried not to think too much about the fact that she'd been near his eyes with a needle while he'd been unconscious, but found that his mind would rather latch onto the thought that followed immediately in its wake:

She'd patched him up.

The thought swam around in his head, and he couldn't quite make it correspond with the image of the furious woman with the pitchfork, two seconds away from running him through. He looked up at the barn ceiling, and frowned. It was indeed dark, and the rays of sunlight filtering in through the cracks that he remembered from his rude awakening that morning were nowhere to be seen. _Curse this, how long was I out?_

"I see you're finally awake."

He blamed it on his tired mind that he hadn't even realised she was there, and was glad he didn't jump too much at the voice that drifted up from somewhere to his right. Without jarring his body too much, Laxus moved his head, finally catching sight of her sitting against the far wall, a book in her lap and a small candle burning beside her.

He wasn't going to attempt speaking at once, aware that his mouth felt like sawdust and his throat even worse, so he settled for just looking at her. His inquiring gaze was met with a quirked brow – a challenge, almost. Had they been in a bar or a lounge, and he'd had more than a little vodka in him, he might have found it charming.

But this was a woman who'd made him squirm like a child and, worst of all, who'd then gone and saved his ass. He hated being at someone's mercy, and the fact that he was powerless to do anything about it made him wish she'd used the pitchfork when she'd first threatened to.

He wondered a second what a farm-girl would gain from saving his life, but didn't have to think long, and he felt something like nausea push against the base of his throat. After all, fascists weren't only to be found in the army. He didn't doubt she'd be well rewarded for bringing him to the_ Il Duce._ But most of all, he was quite certain that, even if he had been stabbed to death with a rusty pitchfork in a nondescript barn somewhere in the Italian countryside, by a _woman,_ it would have been less embarrassing for Ivan than if he found out his son had been caught by the Italians.

"So, how do you feel?" she asked then, tilting her head, and the soft glow from the candle threw shadows over her smooth features. The image distracted him long enough to completely forget what she'd been saying.

"What?" he tried, voice hoarse, followed by a rasping cough that shook his entire frame. The injuries throbbed, but not as much as they had earlier. She'd done a good job fixing him.

She placed the book beside the candle, and shuffled over to where he was sitting, her movements oddly graceful for a country-girl in a dirty stable. Long, dark hair spilled over her shoulders, the colour sharp against the white of her shirt, and Laxus found it suddenly hard to focus on anything else.

"Did they hit you in the head too when they got you?" her voice drew him away from his musings. "I asked how you feel." For emphasis, she probed the bandage, and Laxus hissed. The resulting smirk tugging at her mouth was particularly devious. "Well, you're alive, at the very least, although it's more than you're due."

He tried to scowl at her, but the pain made it into a grimace instead. "Why?" he ground out, hoping she wouldn't ask him to elaborate. Monosyllabic answers were all he had the strength to make, at least for the moment.

She regarded him closely for a long while, her dark eyes unreadable in the shadows of the stable. Then she broke the gaze, and his eyes followed the line of her neck where it disappeared down into her shirt. "I have my reasons."

He despised vague answers – mostly because he was usually the one giving them – but didn't press her. He was alive, for now. If he could somehow escape before she handed him over...

"_Relax_," she said, turning her head to give him a wry look. "I'm not going to report you." She flicked her eyes to his uniform, or what was left of it. "Even if you are Soviet scum," she mumbled under her breath.

He didn't know quite what to make of that, and his confusion must have shown on his face, because she rolled her eyes. "I don't support the war, you know," she said. "It doesn't mean I'll gladly welcome my country's enemy into my house, but I won't kill someone unable to fend for himself, no matter what banner he's under."

Laxus said nothing, only watched her closely for any sign of dishonesty, but found none. It surprised him more than it should, and he had to remind himself that just because the government was corrupt didn't mean the entire country was. War had a tendency to blur those lines, until all you could see was one, menacing enemy. This war had already been particularly hard on civilians, too, no doubt as a result of just that.

She was looking at him again, and he realised she was waiting for an explanation. He sighed. "I–" he coughed, "I'm exactly what you think I am."

She raised a brow. "Oh? And what's that?"

"A Soviet spy."

She snorted. "I figured. You sure curse like one."

That made him smirk. "I can...recall, a choice phrase or two from you, too...you know." Speaking was still difficult, but he forced the words out regardless.

Her answering grin was quite something. "I do know quite a few of those, yes."

"And how is it an Italian farm-girl knows how to speak English?"

She looked at him for a long time, as though contemplating whether or not to be honest with him, before finally shrugging. "My father was English, so my mother taught me. Said it could come in handy, if I ever wanted to travel there."

He snorted. "Wouldn't recommend that these days."

She shrugged, and looked away. "The war won't last forever."

_Oh, but it sure feels like it, _he thought, but didn't voice the thought aloud. She didn't know the war from his perspective, and Italian or not, if she saw an end to the war he wasn't going to ruin that prospect with the things he'd seen. Entire villages, burned to the ground. Masses of people, packed into trains too small to house them all. Hidden camps beyond the sight of prying eyes, and tendrils of smoke reaching into grey skies like arms reaching to the heavens for deliverance.

"Hey – Soviet boy."

He tore his mind away from the images flickering across his inner vision, settling his one-eyed gaze back on the girl. There was a frown marring her brow, and the sides of her previously grinning mouth were turned down. And suddenly he had the unpleasant feeling that she could tell exactly what he'd been thinking.

But she said nothing of it. Instead she reached down, her hands curling around a ceramic mug, before offering it to him. "You should drink something."

Pushing himself up into a sitting position required more effort than he really had, but he managed somehow, accepting the mug with a brusque nod. He'd never been fond of cow's milk, but as it trickled down his sore throat he found that even vodka wouldn't have tasted quite so good at that moment.

When he finally drew the cup away from his lips, there was an amused twinkle in her dark eyes. "What?" he snapped.

She shook her head. "Nothing, Red. Just surprised you didn't check it for poison."

The derogative made him twitch, but he settled for glaring at her. Pushing the cup back towards her, he never dropped his gaze. "You don't strike me as a woman with the patience for that kind of thing."

She raised a brow, before a smirk drew her lips into a knowing grin. "True. I would have used the pitchfork."

Laxus only shook his head, and tried to shift, and winced, cursing under his breath. But before he could reach towards the bandage, a small hand slapped his away. "Stop that! I didn't go through all this trouble for you to mess it all up!"

Reaching up to wipe his brow instead, Laxus met her challenging gaze. "You still haven't said what you plan to do with me."

_That_ made her snort, and she pointed an accusing finger at him. "Don't get any ideas; I'm not _that_ desperate."

"You sure about that?" for some reason he couldn't help himself. "With all your young men off fighting the war, it must be awfully lonely up here."

She gave him a dry look. "I can see why you got shot, if that's your attempt at subtlety."

Despite the fact that it tugged at the stitches over his eye, Laxus felt a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Not quite."

"Then what was it?"

He eyed her closely. "Tell me what you plan on doing with me, and I'll consider answering."

She barked a laugh. "Oh-ho, look who's making demands now! I'm sorry, _signor_, did you think you were in charge of this operation? You Soviets and your arrogance," she shook her head. "I don't think so."

He shrugged. "Have it your way then."

Her brows drew up, and he could tell she'd read the challenge in his words. "You're pretty full of yourself. Let me guess: privileged daddy's boy?"

He snorted. "Not exactly."

"Ah, issues with the old man, then. Is that why you're here? To prove that you're a good little Soviet puppet?"

Laxus said nothing, but that only seemed to ignite her curiosity, and when he looked back towards her, her dark eyes were laughing in the candlelight. "Not much of a temper, though. Shame. I was hoping for some good comebacks. It _does_ get a little boring out here in the country, these dark days."

"Come up with better insults, and I might actually bother," he retorted drily, and the resulting grin almost had him smiling in response.

"Ah, so you _do_ banter! I was wondering for a second if I'd saddled myself with an entirely uninteresting prisoner."

He raised a brow at that. "Is that what I am then?"

Her smile was secretive. "Maybe." Then she tilted her head, and he watched as the dark curls fell across her shoulders. "Do you have a name, or should I keep calling you "Soviet boy"? I could come up with something better, of course, but I'd prefer to know, either way."

He had no way of knowing just how well-connected this woman really was. He doubted she was a simple country-girl, even if her bilingualism was a result of her parentage and upbringing. If she was working for the _Il Duce,_ her easy banter was nothing like any interrogation he'd ever seen, but for all he knew, it might just be what she was best at, luring captivated men into telling her all their darkest secrets. And if he gave her his name, there was nothing stopping her from looking him up and finding out just who he was.

"Alexei."

She raised a brow, and he wondered if she could tell that he was lying. If that was the case, she was also better than most interrogators he knew. But she didn't press it. "Alexei, hmm? How very...Russian."

He didn't bother responding to that, and she rolled her eyes, and he caught the soft mutter of _'no humour' _in Italian under her breath, which almost made him smile. _Almost_. He wasn't so far gone as to lose his wits to a pretty country wench, no matter how alluring, and even if he hadn't felt the touch of a woman since before the war. Trekking across Europe at his honoured father's behest left precious little time for dallying in the pleasures of the flesh, but that didn't mean he was going to place himself at the mercy of the first skirt he came across. _Even if she'd be willing. _

The thought didn't help in the _least_, and he forced his mind back to the danger she posed, rather than whether or not her skin was really as soft as the candlelight made it seem. _For all her words of not supporting the war, there's a good chance she's a fascist sympathizer, at the very least. _

"You don't trust that I am what I say I am."

Her voice drew him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to find her regarding him with a bemused smile. "Interesting," she hummed.

Laxus snorted. "I don't see why it would be. Our countries are at war, and you're holding me prisoner. I'd say I'm entitled to a bit of distrust." He didn't mention the fact that there was still a knife tucked away in his boot, and that even with his injuries and one functioning eye, he was a lot larger than she was. And unless she'd had special training, he would be able to take her down.

If she wanted to believe she had him at her mercy, he would let her. For the moment, at least.

"You're probably right," she said then, before rising to her feet, dusting hay off her apron as she went. Even looming above him, her soft shape didn't seem the least threatening, and he had to keep his eyes from wandering down the prominent flare of her hips and her narrow waist, accentuated as it was by her apron-strings.

If she noticed his struggle, she didn't let on, but the smile never left her lips as she regarded him from above. "Regardless, I'm going to be honest with you on one thing – a courtesy which you've so spectacularly failed to grant _me." _She grinned, and Laxus felt his brows furrow. _Nothing good comes from a woman smiling like that, no matter the country. _

Bending to pick up the candle and her novel, she met his gaze squarely with her own, impossibly dark one. "My name is Cana Alberona, and unlike your fabulously uinventive cover-name, _Alexei_, that's a solid slice of truth. Do with it what you will." Then she rose, and with a sway of her hips that he was certain was in no way _accidental_, she turned and all but sauntered towards the stable door, leaving him alone amongst the hay.

And Laxus remained in the shadows of her departure, wondering idly if he'd been better off if the fascists had captured him.

* * *

AN: I have yet to find out exactly how long this piece will end up being, but as of right now, it'll be a story of three or four parts of approximately this length. There will be some leaps in time, as well as the introduction of other Fairy Tail cameos, so stay tuned!

**Italian**

_Signor: _Mr.

_Signore: _Sir.

_prego_: you're welcome.

_per favore_: please

_grazie: _Thank you.

"_Credere, Obbedire, Combattere": _Fascist slogan, "Believe, Obey, Fight."

_Il Duce: _"The Leader", Benito Mussolini.

**Russian **

_yebat': _fuck (expletive).

_stariy kozyol_: old goat.

_tchort_ _ponderi_: damn it!

**German**

_Führer_: leader, referring to Adolf Hitler.


End file.
